


Coffee, Black

by aejaycee



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-26
Updated: 2014-11-26
Packaged: 2018-02-27 03:12:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2676851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aejaycee/pseuds/aejaycee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remus had started to notice that, more often than not, people took their drinks to match their personalities; a reflection, more than it was an order. His name, according to the side of his cup, was Sirius. And he never took his coffee the same way twice. [Wolfstar Coffee Shop AU]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coffee, Black

Remus had started to notice that, more often than not, people took their drinks to match their personalities; a reflection, more than it was an order. 

He thought about it when he had time to, in between throwing back shots of espresso to staying awake all night sick and frantically catering to the endless string of people who passed through with impatience and impertinent requests. (“No, I can’t make you an Americano without water. Because it’s not possible, that’s why. Fine, yes, of course. I’m sorry, sir. I’ll get right on that. Americano, no water. Coming right up.”)

Walburga, who owned the shop and only popped in from time to time, took it black, but Remus wasn’t sure if it was because she enjoyed it –she didn’t seem to, but then again she didn’t seem to enjoy much of anything– or because ordering anything else would be a let down to the name of the establishment (“Coffee, Black which he had thought was just a pretentious name before realizing that it was some sort of unintentional pun as well– he said unintentional, because he couldn’t imagine her or her straight-laced husband having any semblance of the humor necessary to put that sort of thing together). More likely, he figured that she was used to swallowing bitterness at this point in her advancing life and that putting anything remotely pleasant into her system would be a shock to it. 

Mary was one of the morning baristas and, while it may have been clear why her attitude had won her the coveted morning slots, her skills never seemed to add up: she was perennially cheerful and emanating sunshine, but blanched at harsh tones and seemed to have too much energy and too little markable productivity for her own good. She took her coffee so that it was practically milk, weighed down with as much cream as the cup had space for and –though she swears it’s only three, Remus had seen her slip in more nearly every time– five or six sugars. 

Lily drank tea exclusively. She said it has something to do with being homesick, but he thought there had to be something more to it; a drive to stay grounded, a hope to stay original in the face of the fact that every day at the coffee shop had started to blend into all the rest–– for all of them, not just her. 

Remus had spent most of his life craving stability, and yet even he was starting to climb the walls; he worked more than anyone else on the schedule, and while he often got a lot of jokes aimed in his direction about his impeccable work ethic, he wondered if the others knew as well as he did the two things that had led him to the shop in the first place: he was desperate for the money, and he didn’t have much else going on in his life. He arrived without fail at the crack of dawn on the mornings he was scheduled to open; it wasn’t hard to avoid sleeping through those shifts when he so rarely slept through the night to begin with. His afternoons were for classes (or the few left that his scholarship had the depleting strength to cover) and so he often avoiding catering to the university crowd that was comprised of his classmates; he saw enough of them on campus, though, and the cups clutched in their hands more often than not bore the Black logo (it was inescapable even on his days off, honestly, he had no idea how they’d become so popular...but then again it was a small town made up of favored patronage and he couldn’t argue with a system he’d never really had a foot in). 

It was the nights that he liked working the most; he stumbled through the door without fail with no more than five minutes to spare, books clutched in his arms until he had room to dump them down onto the counter and start working around them. The dinner rush was never bad enough to strain him, but always busy enough to keep him from going insane from boredom. The lower the natural light sank around the streetlamps outside, the more into himself he retreated; soon the steady stream of people grew cold, and he had time to work. There were books for school and books for pleasure spread out around the counter, and the one time Walburga had caught him doing it she’s implied that she didn’t mind as long as the customers were taken care of first. When he closed he played music, and the sound floated above the hum of the machines shutting down or the dishwasher shaking in its boots (Mary would unload it in the morning, humming without fail, and she was almost guaranteed to chip a mug or two as the bell over the door startled her). 

Then he would trudge home to his cramped flat, the largest he could afford despite the fact that it was made up of two rooms including the bathroom and that he really couldn’t afford it at all. His back would ache without fail, outdone only by his sore legs, and he would fall into bed for a night of fitful sleep cut abruptly open either when he could no longer stand it and turned to his bookshelf or he ripped himself out of the warmth of the flat to get back to work. 

The monotony was dependable, yes, but for someone who spent so much time observing other people, Remus was starting to feel like nothing more than a bit of the landscape; a part of the walls he stood against as he allowed life to happen around him (he’d always been happier that way, really, but that didn’t make it an easy way of life). 

However, every so often, something would happen to break up the pattern of the filter-and-foam filled routine: a crash of the unexpected that almost made Remus think that dragging himself into the work that day was worth it. More often than not, the distraction came in one blur of dark hair and leather in particular. 

His name, according to the side of his cup, was Sirius.

And he never took his coffee the same way twice.


End file.
